


Choose Your Own Adventure

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-27
Updated: 2010-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She and Rory had decamped to their quarters and had a hasty happy-to-be-alive shag on the floor, which was becoming a bit of a tradition. Saved from vampires? Shag. Nearly frosted to death? Shag. Her head had smacked back against the hatch door during, causing it to open one, two, ten times. (It was a very accommodating hatch door. Good old TARDIS.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choose Your Own Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> OT3 fic - bit of a lead-up to that, I'd call it. This is not a "choose-your-own-adventure trope" tale. As much fun as that could be!

Amy _knows_. Knows when the Doctor is restive, knows that word from one of her school reports. _Amelia Pond is restive; she has difficulty listening and following directions._ Her aunt had looked it up though Amy had insisted the teacher had meant "restful". Well.

It's not a bedroom they've chosen, but it had beds, sort of. Cosy, pillowy sofa-like lumps in an arc along the curve of the ship. The walls bloomed with soft pink light. It's Amy's favourite room in the TARDIS and Rory had triumphantly put his finger on why.

"Like a... womb, isn't it?"

"You've a good memory, then," she'd said. "Or they showed you the insides of wombs at nurse school."

Rory opened his mouth then shut it and coloured and she read his mind -- he'd been about to make some sort of improper joke about female anatomy (hers, in fact) but had thought better of it, though he'd known she'd laugh and maybe try to fix the joke a bit.

"There were diagrams, yes."

The TARDIS had warmed again, returned to its lovely temperate state -- the perfect temperature is when you don't notice the temperature, Amy thought. But it actually adjusted to them. She and Rory had decamped to their quarters and had a hasty happy-to-be-alive shag on the floor, which was becoming a bit of a tradition. Saved from vampires? Shag. Nearly frosted to death? Shag. Her head had smacked back against the hatch door during, causing it to open one, two, ten times. (It was a very accommodating hatch door. Good old TARDIS.)

Now Amy and Rory were freshly-bathed and wrapped up in dressing-gowns - Rory in rich deep green, his favourite colour, and Amy's flame-red. How did the TARDIS manage that one? How had it known they'd wanted plates of chips and crispy battered haddock earlier? She gave up puzzling over it. It just knew.

They sprawled on the pillowy things while the Doctor paced and picked through the bookshelves.

"Aren't you tired?" Amy asked, exasperated finally by the muttering and fluttering at the room's periphery.

"Not as such, no. Haven't you slept enough for one day, Pond?" the Doctor asked.

Amy glanced at Rory, the subtle flutter beneath his closed eyelids telegraphing a dream. "Now I can nap properly and not wake up being chased by bloodthirsty pensioners, it's much more satisfying."

The Doctor (A doctor and a nurse, fancy that -- she was a lucky girl) disappeared and Amy felt her eyes slip shut. She dreamed: this time she wasn't a mum-to-be stirring batter in a Cath Kidston apron but an artist slopping paint on a canvas and Rory was there (with that ponytail -- _bless_ ) and so was the Doctor and who said that couldn't be what five years on would look like? (He'd kissed her back. He had.)

A flutter of movement on the pillow-sofa jarred her and she cracked one eyelid a fraction to spy the grey-robed Doctor at her right. He was looking at her -- not her face, no -- his gaze travelled upward and stopped at the tie round her middle, swept upward and lingered and she felt herself flush. She opened her eyes wide.

"Game up," she said.

"Sorry," replied the Doctor, but he didn't sound _actually_ sorry. And neither was Amy. She'd all but delivered him an engraved invitation that night in her bedroom, which was, technically, still tonight.

Amy glanced at Rory, awake now, and smiled at his drowsy-sweet expression. His hand tightened around hers, the ring making a little sharp dent in the back of her finger as she squeezed back.

Amy resolved to bring the latest dolls she'd made with her when they stopped off back at Leadworth the next time. And to make one for Rory. _Childish things, but..._

"Maybe I'll be an artist in five years, Doctor," she said, sleepily, and he rolled his neck along the back cushion to face her.

She stretched her free arm out along the soft fabric of the cushion (was that silk? It felt _silky_ ) and captured the Doctor's hand in hers, pulled it toward her waist until his knuckles met Rory's.

"Anything could happen, right?"  



End file.
